At My Job, We're All About Anal Bacteria

A conversation that took place earlier today at my office:

The Man: [poking his head inside my office] Hey, I've got a weird question: Is there any capitalization in "E coli?"

Me: Yeah, the "E" is capitalized, the "coli" is not.

The Man: For real? I don't even want to know how you know that.

Me: E. coli was my mystery bacteria in Microbiology! And it's Escherichia coli if you're nasty.

The Man: Uh... should I ask?

Me: Probably not. I'm a biology geek and I really doubt you want to hear about it.

The Man: I have no doubt you're right. But what in the hell is a mystery bacteria? Does it come wrapped in a little package with a question mark on it?

Me: Yes it does! It's kind of like a jack-in-the-box. You open the lid and hope to Christ that your mystery substance isn't anthrax. [rolling eyes] God.

The Man: Well shit... I don't know. What the hell is a mystery bacteria?

Me: You're given a test tube. You run tests until you figure out what you've been given.

The Man: Did you freak out when you found out you had E coli?

Me: Hell no! I got lucky! There were some people who had Mycobacterium smegmatis.

The Man: Huh?

Me: Smegmatis. SMEGMA-tis. Think about it.

The Man: Uh, um... OH MY GOD.

Me: Yeah, tell me about it. I was happy to have the lower-intestinal bacteria once I considered the alternative.

The Man: I think I'm going to be sick.

Me: Yeah. You know you've been hosed when people who get the bacteria known as "gut flora" are happy about it. Biology... she is a cruel mistress, my friend.

The Man: I think I've got to go to the bathroom.

Me: Ok! Hey! Glad I could help!

I Found A Petite Little Bird

I am a procrastinator. I will put off necessary duties until the last possible moment. One year I did the entirety of my Christmas shopping at 5pm on Christmas Eve. At WalMart. Because that is just how classy I am.

For the last several years I've been the designated Thanksgiving cook. This isn't really a big deal since there are only three of us. It isn't too difficult to cook for me, my husband, and my mother, in large part because I cook what I like and those other two clowns will eat just about whatever is put in front of them. But when you combine Thanksgiving cooking duties with irrational procrastination you are left with nothing but 20+ pound birds at the grocery store on the Wednesday before the big day. The first few years I just shrugged and hoisted the big ass turkeys into my shopping cart, banking on the fact that my husband really digs turkey sandwiches. And I like turkey sandwiches too, but more because turkey is a perfect vehicle for mayonnaise and salt. I don't really care about the protein. I just want the fat, sodium, and cholesterol. We all have our vices, and lord knows I have plenty, but in the culinary realm mayonnaise is on my list of top five. I've been known, in moments of dietary weakness, to eat it by the spoonful. Yeah, you heard me. I'm not proud of it, but I'm keeping it real here.

As I soon found out, no matter how fond someone might be of turkey sandwiches, when you're dealing with a twenty-three pound bird and only three eaters you're going to be faced with more leftovers than you can slap between a couple pieces of bread. In years past I bravely soldiered on, making turkey soup, turkey hash, and turkey pot pies. But after a couple weeks of this I was so sick of the bird that if I saw another piece of turkey I was going to kick somebody in the crotch.

This year I'm very proud to say that I learned my lesson. I felt like hammered shit today and spent the majority of the morning and afternoon whining like a baby on the sofa, but I managed to get my ass down to the grocery store to do the holiday food shopping. I shuffled along the aisles, grunting and sneezing while pushing my cart. Then, in the distance, I viewed the meat section. It was surrounded by other shoppers. There appeared to be some shoving. I felt my chest tighten and my heart speed up. I gulped and braced myself. I needed a small turkey. I had to find something not designed to feed an entire army platoon. I simply could not deal with another year of turkey tacos or whatever the hell. I heard the Chariots of Fire theme song in my head as I fought through the crowd and started looking through the turkey bin. When I located a thirteen pound bird I snatched it up, cradled it like a baby, and proudly set it into my grocery cart.

So this year I predict a wonderful Thanksgiving. There will be plenty of bird for dinner, as well as some nice mayonnaise turkey sandwiches afterwards. And best of all, no one will be kicked in the crotch.

I Have A Serious Question. No, Really.

Somehow I managed to make my way on to one of my employees' personal email distribution list. I'm baffled as to how this occurred, because I am no closer to this employee than I am to any others (read: not at all) and while we engage in the periodic business-related exchanges, we are certainly not pals. I don't know him very well, but since his car is garishly decorated with Confederate flags, Bush/Cheney stickers, and a large bumpersticker that reads "American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God," I think it's safe to assume that we share very little common ground from an ideological standpoint. But for whatever reason he includes me whenever he sends out his flurry of emails. This is fine, because I can hit the delete button with minimal effort and lightning speed. And this skill comes in handy when I receive his instructions to boycott gasoline purchases on the second Wednesday of the month so that we proud Americans can send loud and clear messages of protest to the large oil companies regarding the outrageous price of gasoline. Aw, yeah! Well played, chief! Don't buy gas on Wednesday! Send the message to Big Oil that we consumers are in control, and we can totally wreck you if we decide to! Never mind the fact that if no one buys gas on Wednesday they'll just buy it on Thursday, and presumably buy more of it while they're at it. Hell yeah! Way to stick it to The Man!

This morning when I saw an email in my inbox from this employee titled "BOYCOTT!" I cringed and prepared myself for the onslaught of stupid. I was not disappointed. I was urged to boycott the use of the new dollar coins because they no longer include the words "In God We Trust." First of all, it's yet another in a long line of urban legends. (Apparently there were a very small number of these coins minted without the phrase, but it was due to an error of some sort, not a deliberate omission.) But the email really got me thinking. Yeah, you heard me. I was thinking. And this is where the serious question comes in:

Even if that phrase were omitted from a coin, why is it such a big deal? I ask this for two reasons:

1) While I am certainly no Biblical scholar, I have enough knowledge of the good book to know that The Almighty doesn't appear to be a huge fan of the dinero. Poverty is celebrated in the Bible. There's the whole thing about how it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter heaven, and let's not forget how Jesus started whaling on those dudes changing money outside of the temple. (I'm not suggesting Jesus administered a beatdown. This is for literary effect. Don't email me!) For a deity that, by every account I've heard, is somewhat skeptical if not downright disdainful of wealth, it seems odd to me that people would be so determined to inextricably link the two.

and,

B) A coin? Really? Really? Is the verbiage really that important? Because I say, who gives a crap? I'm not trying to be flip here, but I truly cannot understand why people get so invested in what's printed on currency or minted on coins. Judging by the number of times this email had been forwarded and the multitude of exclamation points contained within the comments pleading people to refuse these coins, this is an issue that resonates deeply with some people. But for the life of me I can't figure out why. I'll be the first to admit that I don't have a dog in this fight, because I don't give a shit what's on my money. It could have a picture of Daffy Duck on it. I only need to know one thing: Can I trade it for cigarettes and vodka? If so, I'm happy.

I am honestly confused by this. I really don't get it. Feel free to insert [joke about stupid] here.

I Will Go To Unbelievable Lengths For A Good Taco

I work with a large number of people who are fluent in Spanish and English. Some of them are from areas with large Spanish speaking populations and who grew up being bilingual, some are immigrants from various Hispanic countries who have managed to learn English and speak it better than an alarming number of natives, and many are children of people who fled Mexico several years ago. I don't know why they fled that country, and while I probably should, I'm far too lazy to look that kind of stuff up. There are any number of salacious reality shows on television. Why waste my time educating myself when I could spend it wondering why the girl with the gigantic fake boobs slept with him?

One day, quite a while back, one of my employees said that he was going to go out for lunch and asked if I'd like him to pick up something for me. I asked him what he was going to be getting, and he said he was going to grab some tacos.

Me: Oh, thanks for asking! I'm not in the mood for Taco Bell, though.

Employee: Ewww. I'm not going to The Bell. I'm talking about real tacos.

Me: [perking up] Oh! Like Baja Fresh?

Employee: [Collapsing into a chair, presumably overwhelmed by the stupid] No, gringo. REAL tacos. Real Mexican tacos.

Me: Ooh!!! I think I might like that! Where are you going?

Employee: Uh... just some people I know that make tacos.

Me: What kind?

Employee: All kinds. You can get whatever you want. Carne, pollo. Whatever.

Me: OK!!! I'll take a couple beef tacos. Oh, sorry. Carne! Hee! Did you hear me just habla?

Employee: Yeah, nice job. *cough* Anyway, what do you want on your tacos? You can get whatever you want. Guacamole, salsa, lettuce, onions...

Me: I'd just like some cilantro and lime juice. Can they do that?

Employee: [rolling eyes] Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure they can swing that.

Me: Don't laugh at me! I habla'ed and everything!

So anyway, about 20 minutes later he came back bearing the most glorious food ever. I scarfed those tacos down, snorting and grunting the entire time. After I was finished I went outside and smoked a cigarette. They were that good.

A couple months later this same employee said that he was going back to get more tacos and would I like any. I almost broke my ankle sprinting to my purse to get him the money. The second experience was every bit as beautiful as the first. I asked the employee where, oh where, were these maestros of the taco located? He hesitated, pointed over his shoulder, and said that they were "that way." That kind of vague crap simply would not do. I pressed for more information.

Me: Do they have a restaurant?

Employee: Uh, no. I don't think you could call it that.

Me: Well then where do you go to get the food?

Employee: They have a truck... kinda.

Me: Oh! Like a mobile taco stand?

Employee: If you want to call it that.

Me: So it's like a little trailer or something?

Employee: No, it's more like a van.

Me: Oh! So kind of like an ice cream truck that they sell tacos out of?

Employee: Uh... it's more like out of the back of their van.

Me: Huh. Ok. Well, where are they?

Employee: It might not be a good idea to say.

Me: What? I'd be one of their best customers! How is that not a good thing?

Employee: [blinks]

Me: [finally catching the hint] Oh, I see. Are they trying to keep a low profile?

Employee: Yeah, you could say that. They're not supposed to be here.

Me: Ah, ok. Well I don't give a crap what their legal status is, I just want to know where I can go to get more of those tacos. These things are like crack to me.

Employee: They stay down by the river in a van. They sell tacos to make some money.

Me: Down by the river? Huh. Really? There's not much down there other than a... uh, park.

Employee: Yeah. They don't have anywhere to go.

Me: Damn... that sounds pretty rough. I hope they can make it. [Then, unable to resist, because I am a total jackass sometimes] So they're LIVING IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER?!?!?!



The taco-dealing employee now works the overnight shift, so I only see him as he's leaving work and I'm arriving. I still don't know exactly where these taco vendors are, and while I hope that their fortunes have changed and permitted them to move out of the VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER, I'm still disturbed that I have no idea as to their whereabouts. Their food was that good. And I wouldn't be surprised if one of these days I got a craving and ended up getting arrested for wandering around the riverbank shouting about where the bitches were who make the awesome tacos.

My Friends Are Legendary Theologians

Overheard tonight at a dinner with friends:

"So you've got your Catholics with their wine and beads and guilt. And the Jews don't eat pork because pigs are dirty, but have you ever seen how chickens live? They eat shit all the damn time! And the Mormons... they confuse me. Aren't they the ones who wear paper bags on their heads?"